


some know it lovingly

by procellous



Series: the paint could peel, the glass could shatter [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Cunnilingus, Dom Sansa Stark, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Ramsay Bolton, Kink Negotiation, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Praise Kink, Sub Theon Greyjoy, and then…Sex, as is right & good, that's an important tag right there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21580429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: Theon needs some things. Sansa is only too happy to provide.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Series: the paint could peel, the glass could shatter [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554892
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	some know it lovingly

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally the second half of [_a cure I know that soothes the soul_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21575536) but I decided it worked better as its own fic. 
> 
> It's still porn, folks. 
> 
> Will there be another fic in this series? Well…I'm thinking about it.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t sleep without having Theon there beside her, it was just that she slept _better_ when she knew where he was. Especially when he was somewhere that she could reach out and touch him and know he was safe. 

His rooms were empty when she slipped in, and cold. He must not have been in them for a while. She checked the rooms he might be in, the library and the kitchens and the armory, all quiet and still, without a sign of Theon. 

Truly worried, she wrapped her cloak a little tighter and made her way down to the empty dungeons—nothing—and to where the kennels had been, dreading what she would find there. 

Theon, to her great relief and considerable worry, was nowhere to be found. 

Where might he have gone? The hot springs, perhaps—the steam helped his aches. _Yes_ , she told herself, _he went to the hot springs, because he was aching too much to sleep, and he’s fine. Everything is fine._

He wasn’t in the hot springs.

Sansa barely resisted the urge to scream. 

Where else could he be? She doubted he would leave the castle and go into the woods, not at this hour when it would be too dark to see your hand in front of your face, but where else might he have gone? 

_If I was Theon and couldn’t sleep, where would I go?_

The Theon she had known as a girl might have gone to Robb’s room, or more likely Robb to his, but Robb was—

The crypts. 

She nearly ran down the steps into the darkness, torch in hand as she went into the chamber that held the bones of her parents and brother—

There was a dark lump in front of Robb’s statue, a flickering candle at the statue’s feet. It had burned low, guttering; how long had he been down here?

“Theon?”

He lifted his head, half-turning to her. His stormy green eyes were red-rimmed, tear-marks on his face. His bloodshot eyes tracked her as she crossed the room to him, then drifted back to Robb as she sat beside him. 

“Theon,” she said, a hand on his arm. 

“Sometimes I don’t know why I keep coming back here.” He drew his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. “He hated me. He died hating me. And I deserved it.”

“No,” Sansa said. “I’m sure he didn’t. Robb could never hold a grudge against you.”

“I betrayed him. I destroyed his home. I nearly killed his brothers—I did kill two boys, who had never done any wrong. That’s a bit more than a grudge.”

“He loved you, Theon.”

“Aye. He did.” Theon looked impossibly sad and bitter and tired, all at once. “He loved me, and I loved him, for all the good that ever did either of us. Love can’t save anyone.”

“What was it that saved us, then, if not love?” She reached out, brushing away his tears as she cupped his cheeks. “Love is the only thing that can save us.”

Sansa woke to soft sobs in the darkness. She laid a hand on Theon’s, asking a silent question. Theon drew away from her. 

“He broke me,” he said, a hoarse whisper choked with tears. “He really did break me.”

“He didn’t,” Sansa said. “I know he didn’t, because you’re here with me.”

“I miss him. Sometimes. And I know it’s wrong. He was terrible. What he did was terrible. But…”

“I miss Littlefinger, sometimes. I hated him, I still do, but sometimes I’ll wonder what he would say, what he would do.”

“He made me stronger.”

“No,” Sansa said, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “He didn’t. If—if they made us better, if they made us stronger or smarter or anything like that, then they were right to do the things they did to us, and they weren’t, Theon, they weren’t right to hurt us. We didn’t deserve it. No, Theon, I know what you’re going to say, but you didn’t deserve to be tortured. Nobody deserves what he did to you.”

Theon was silent as he reached for her, drawing her close. His breath came in shudders and sobs as he shook in her arms. 

“It was almost a relief,” he confessed. “Being…his. I didn’t have to think about what I was doing, I just did what he told me. I could pretend that—that they weren’t my choices, not when all my choices had been wrong. That’s what I miss, really.”

Sansa carded through the soft curls by his temple, the bare shape of an idea coming to her. “What if I gave you orders? Not—nothing like he did, of course, but I could tell you to…oh, comb my hair out, or something like that. If you wanted, and you could say no whenever you wanted, but—when you need it. When you want it.”

Theon let out a soft, surprised noise. “I—let me think about it?”

“Of course. As long as you need.”

The door closed behind Theon with a click as she was setting aside her jewelry for the night. She caught his eye through her small silver mirror. He looked stressed. 

“Sansa,” he said, the tension in his frame belying the carefully casual tone to his voice, “could we—that is—that idea you had?”

Sansa casted her mind back over any ideas she’d had that might make him look so tense. “Which one, love?”

“You telling me what to do?” His words stumbled over each other to escape his mouth. 

“Oh. Oh, of course, come here.”

A shred of the tension seemed to leave him as he crossed the room to her, eyes downcast. 

“None of that,” she said, lifting his chin. “I want to see you.” She gave him a soft smile as his eyes lifted to hers. “There you are. Perfect.” 

His shoulders relaxed at her praise, his breath leaving him in a sigh. Years of practice reading people had prepared her for this—for cataloguing every gasp and sigh and hitched breath to figure out what Theon needed. Nothing too close to Ramsay, something more intimate. 

“Comb out my hair,” she instructed, sitting back down at her vanity. 

She watched Theon’s reflection as his fingers carefully and gently untied her braids, working each lock of hair free. He was frowning a little in concentration as he untwisted strands and removed pins. 

He took the comb from her table and began to work the tangles out, starting at the bottom and working up with smooth, practiced motions. Every stroke eased some of the tension from him, relaxing him and steadying his hands. 

Sansa had missed having someone she loved brushing out her hair; she hadn’t had this since she had left Winterfell for King’s Landing, all those years ago. The closest she had come since was Shae, who had been a dear friend, but—it hadn’t been the same.

Theon set down the comb and stepped back. Her hair fell in a smooth, shining sheaf past her shoulders. 

“Very good. Undress me,” she said, standing. 

Theon nodded, his eyes starting to drift down to her feet.

“Eyes up, love.” She cupped his cheek, raising his face up again. “Don’t hide from me.”

Theon’s nod was barely a motion against her palm, his hands reaching up to unclasp the brooch at the neck of her kirtle. The leather of his gloves brushed against her bare skin. 

“Good,” she said, feeling a little light-headed. “You’re doing very well.”

His fingers fumbled at the small buttons down the front of her gown, slowly releasing them. He pushed the sleeves down from her shoulders and arms. She cupped his face in her hands and

Theon shuddered, his eyes falling closed for a moment, pushing into her touch. 

“Very good.”

He undid the buttons at her wrists, pressing a feather-light kiss to her pulse as he did. His hands found the laces of her kirtle, untying the knot at the top and pulling the laces free. He seemed to be almost in a trance, and Sansa knew that this was a moment as fragile as a soap-bubble, easily shattered. 

Her kirtle slipped from her shoulders under Theon’s hands, and she stood before him in her underthings. She turned around, drawing her hair over her shoulder, so he could reach the laces on her stays. 

His fingers fumbled at the knot at the small of her back; she could feel it slipping from his hands. His breathing was growing more ragged, harsh and labored with every moment that passed. 

“You’re doing very well, Theon,” she assured him, and she felt the sigh against her back more than she heard it. 

The knot slipped free, and his hands drew the laces out of her stays. He pulled the tie free from the neck of her chemise and slid the shift off her, his hands ghosting along her sides. 

“Very good,” she told him as she faced him again. She felt like she had said that too many times, but she couldn’t think of any better words. 

He knelt down before her, unlacing her boots, untying her garters and rolling down her stockings, baring her entirely. 

He looked up at her, naked adoration in his eyes, and Sansa threaded a hand through his soft dark curls, relishing the soft noise he made as she petted him. It was not quite a moan, not quite a whimper, but something close to both. 

“You’ve been very good so far, Theon,” she said, feeling a little breathless. “I think you deserve a reward for being so good for me.”

It was hard to resist Theon at the best of times, and only more so, she was finding, when he was on his knees for her like this; when he was looking up at her like she was the only thing in the world. He was trusting and pliant and _hers_ , all hers, only hers. It was a heady thought. 

“What sort of reward would you like, Theon?”

“Please,” he gasped, his voice hoarse, “please, may I kiss you?”

“Of course, love.” She sat back down at her vanity, spreading her legs a little for him, feeling shameless and wanton and powerful. Theon gave a soft moan at the sight of her, shifting so that he knelt between her knees, still looking up at her the way she had told him to. “Fetch a pillow from my bed, and kneel down on it. Put your hands behind your back, then you may kiss me as much as you’d like.”

Theon obeyed immediately, kneeling down on a pillow, his hands clasped together behind his back as he brought his mouth to her thighs. He pressed butterfly-soft kisses to the skin of her inner thighs, his long lashes brushing against the delicate skin there. 

“Eyes up, love,” she reminded him. “I want to see you.”

He looked up at her through his lashes, his mouth open against her, his tongue laving across her wet rea. 

Every time he kissed her like this, it was like he was trying to drown himself in her; his tongue flicked in sharp patterns around her folds, swiping through her wetness and filling her. His lips formed the syllables of silent prayers, moans and whimpers slipping from his mouth and into her. She imagined that his lips and tongue were soothing over the scars hidden within her, the way she kissed his scars until the memories bound to them were love and affection instead of agony and fear. 

She could feel her peak building within her and pulled him closer, drawing him in, her hands fisted in his hair as though he might vanish from her grasp. 

He was beautiful like this, the very picture of desperate submission; his curls a mess from her hands, his mouth hanging open helplessly, his eyes blown dark and wide with want, her slick dripping down his chin, his trousers tented. 

“Look at you, so pretty for me.” She swiped two fingers through the wetness on his chin, pushing them into his mouth. He took them in immediately, eagerly sucking them clean, his tongue twisting around them to take up every last drop of it. “I should dress you up, sweet boy, you’d look just perfect for me.”

He’d look delicious in silk and lace and ribbons, smooth satin and rich velvet. Soft and gentle things, and then she’d spread him out on her furs and enjoy him—she’d have to make sure she wasn’t disturbed; she wanted to take her time with him. 

“Do you want to spend, Theon?”

He nodded, slowly, looking a little confused. His hands were still behind his back. 

“Take your cock out, then.” She was a little proud that she didn’t stumble over the word; it was still unfamiliar in her mouth. 

Theon unbuttoned his trousers, his cock springing free. She wrapped her hand around it, feeling the heat and weight of it, guiding it into her as she straddled him. She rolled her hips, adjusting to the feeling of having him inside her. 

“Go ahead and touch me, love, you’ve been very, _very_ good for me.” She ran a hand through his hair, tugging his head back so that she could press kisses to the underside of his jaw and the line of his throat. 

His hands ran up and down her sides and back, curving over her thighs before drifting back up to curl around her ribs. The soft leather of his gloves was gentle and smooth against her skin. 

“May I?” Theon asked, his voice hoarse. 

“Whenever you want, love,” she told him. She rocked against him harder and faster, feeling another peak building in her and chasing after it until she sighed with the release. He muffled a cry into her breast as he came, trembling like a leaf in a storm with the aftershocks. 

“You’ve been so good, Theon, I love you, you were perfect for me,” she was saying as she held him, only half-aware of the words, “such a sweet thing, can’t believe how lucky I am.” She stroked his hair, pushing the sweat-slick strands away from his eyes. 

Theon stumbled as she pulled him to his feet, pliant and trusting as she guided him into bed, crawling under the furs with him. 

“Rest,” she told you, blowing out the candle. “I’ve got you.”

His arm was draped over her waist, his forehead against her shoulder. For a moment, the only sound in the room was their breathing. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled. “Needed that.”

“Was it good?”

“Mm-hmm. Stay?” 

“Of course,” she said, not pointing out that these were her rooms. “As long as you want me here.”

“Always.” 

Sansa brushed a kiss to his forehead, and slowly they both drifted off to sleep. 


End file.
